The Optimist’s Guide to Christmas
by Caster
Summary: Greg would be more than happy to buy Ryan Wolfe a Secret Santa gift. His problem? He hasn't even met the man before. [GregxRyan]


A/T: -chorus of _Hallelujah_ fills the room- It's complete! This fic is for flipflopadd1ct, who needs no introduction. His request was a Greg/Ryan (No problem!) with the five words _rubber ducky, malignant, hypnosis/hypnotic/hypnotize_, _cowboy, _and _jack off_ (because he couldn't imagine Ryan needing to say it.) Unfortunately, I couldn't squeeze in that last term, but the other four are in there. (I'll write you another one. :D)

The Nick Stokes/David Hodges companion story can be found on my account page.

Disclaimer: Not yours, not mine. Not even for Christmas!

The Optimist's Guide to Christmas

Secret Santa.

It was a child's game, a holiday pastime that brought smiles of joy to all who participated. It was an historical means of entertainment, a make-you-giddy activity if you drew the right person.

It also happened to be Greg Sanders' doom.

Don't get the wrong idea; he _liked_ Secret Santa, especially if it was played with the right group of people. He hadn't, however, meant for Grissom to overhear his suggestion and then actually put it into motion. He _especially_ didn't mean for Sara to have to pass the hat around (sure to throw her into a foul mood), but it was out of Greg's hands. Catherine produced one of Lindsey's old Santa hats and everyone jotted down their names on a small scrap of paper or piece of napkin. The entire lab was oddly excited, really, because the past year had been so bleak that it was nice to be part of something silly and secretive, something that didn't involve dead bodies and evidence.

Despite the lab's favorable outlook on the thing, Greg still couldn't help but flinch as a certain pretty brunette stalked into in of their evidence rooms where he was currently trying to piece together a coffee mug that had been used in a beating a few days earlier. You heard right: a coffee mug. Then again, this _was_ Vegas and Greg found such bizarre things becoming familiar, everyday occurrences.

"Hodges is going to drive me insane," she announced, glowering over her shoulder and towards the direction of the trace lab. "If you knew the trouble I just had with him, you'd bow down and kiss my feet."

Greg sent her a large grin before replying, "I thought you'd never ask. Your place or mine?"

Sara rolled her eyes, aware that he was only joking.

"No kinky feet kissing today," she retorted, a small, quirky smile pulling at her lips. "I've still got a hat full of names to go."

"Another day then?"

"Sure. You can even lick my shoes."

Greg waggled his eyebrows for effect. "Goodie," he replied, grinning as he amicably stuck his hand into the hat. Although he and Sara were the best of friends, there was no romance between them and their banter was only a way to pass the time.

He shuffled the papers around with his fingers, hoping to pick the right one. Secret Santa was a subtle art; you had to be careful of which name you picked. You had to feel the papers and wait until you found the perfect one. Sara obviously knew this, because she was patient as his fingers wandered through the hat, searching for the destined slip; after a moment or two, he finally chose one that crept between his thumb and index. It was obviously a sign, so he quickly withdrew it, opened it, and…

Ryan Wolfe?

Who in the world was he?

Sara raised an eyebrow at Greg's obvious confusion.

"Sara, if you and I were to be purely theoretic," Greg began, leaning against his evidence counter with his left hip, the personification of casual, "Would you happen to know who Ryan Wolfe was?"

"Way to be unobvious, Greg."

"Hey, I said _theoretically_," Greg replied. "I'm in no way implying that his name is on this paper."

Sara rolled her eyes again, because Greg was more obvious than an elephant in a china store.

"He's the transfer from Florida," she patiently explained. "I'm pretty sure he just started working here yesterday. I met him; he's a great guy."

"Don't tell me," Greg groaned, hanging his head. "He's an eighty year old Bible-belter. I can't shop for those kinds of people!"

Sara's smile was one of amusement; it looked as if she was trying to fight it, but it tugged at the corner of her lips nonetheless. Greg was amusing even if he never meant to be, often breaking into theatrical bouts of conversation. He could make friends with almost anyone, but she knew it would be tough if he had to start shopping for a "Bible-belter"- those types of people could never accept Greg. They might find him sweet and witty, but they could never embrace all of him, like the fact that he was attracted to men and that he voted for Kerry.

"Close," she replied. "He's from Miami, Level One CSI. About twenty-eight."

Greg looked up, his slightly overdramatic doom and gloom act forgotten. "Really? Then I'm ready to roll."

"Glad to see you've gotten your spirit back."

"It was never gone, Sara. It was just taking a short vacation. And by the way, I'm sorry you got stuck handing out the names. You're a brave soul for doing it."

She snickered. "Ha," she retorted. "If I can get Hodges to participate, then nothing can stop me. People'll either draw a name or face my wrath."

"Your wrath? That should strike the fear of God in just about everyone."

"That's what I'm counting on, Greg," she replied before turning towards the door, straightening her shoulders, and stalking out, a determined gleam in her eyes. Lab employees were going to draw a name… and they were going to like it.

…

The rules were simple: you had two weeks to find your gift and you could only spend thirty-five dollars at the most.

At first, it had sounded easy. Anyone could find something for fewer than thirty-five dollars, right? But if it sounded too easy then it probably was, because now Greg had a problem: he didn't know whom he was buying _for._ In the last twenty-four hours, it had become his mission to discover who Ryan Wolfe actually was and then stealthily inquire into the man's tastes and hobbies. It was like playing James Bond; Greg had seen all the movies, including _On Her Majesty's Royal Service,_ the elusive George Lazenby film. And if Bond could do it, then Greg could do it too.

At least, that's what he thought when he found himself standing in the middle of the break room. Through his clever deduction alone, Greg had mapped out who was partnered with whom. Warrick and Sara were working a B&E a few miles North of the lab while Nick and Catherine were working a DB in the desert. There seemed to be a lot of those and Greg had been assigned some lab duty that night. They were beginning to overflow with samples and the blonde honestly didn't mind doing his old job once in a while. However, if _he_ was in the lab, that meant

Grissom and Ryan were working the Mirage murder, and if Ryan was at the Mirage then he obviously wasn't in the lab, which didn't help Greg at all.

With a resigned sigh, Greg began brewing some coffee. He needed a plan.

A good plan.

And he only had thirteen more days.

Days Left: 13.  
Optimist's Guide Tip #1: **Wow. This isn't going very well for you, is it? Don't worry; that's what The Optimist's Guide to Christmas is here for. We're going to take you step by step, guiding you through the holiday process. Our first piece of advice? Don't panic. You have more than a week to find an appropriate gift.**

**And you will. Probably.**

**Let's see how tomorrow goes before we start freaking out, okay?**

…

"Grissom! Pssst!"

Greg felt a bit ridiculous as he stood in the doorway of his boss's office, trying to be as inconspicuous as he could. Of course, since Greg was Greg, he stood out in his surroundings. He used to _pop_ out of his surroundings, considering the shirts he once wore, but his lack of neon plaid didn't mean lack of personality. No, he would always be Greg (and he wore the occasional wince-worthy shirt anyway. You know, for continuity's sake. That's what he told his friends, at least.) But he promised himself that he would never get run down, never lose what made him _him, _and he had every intention of keeping that promise.

The entomologist glanced up and cast the blonde a _What the hell do you think you're doing?_ look; it was one Greg hated, but he was willing to sacrifice his comfort if he could only meet the elusive Ryan Wolfe.

"Is there something you need, Greg?" Grissom asked, his tone indicating both his impatience and dislike for Greg to be doing anything other than working.

"I have those semen samples for you," Greg announced, glancing over his shoulder before walking in and handing the folder to the older man. Of _course_ he had results; he wouldn't even think of going to Grissom with just his question alone. He was desperate, but he wasn't suicidal. "Also, I was wondering if you could help me out."

Grissom arched an eyebrow as he peered over his glasses, and Greg resisted the urge to squirm. Why couldn't the guy just communicate normally? Why did he have to be so… intimidating?

"Does it involve a case?"

"Not really," Greg replied. "You were with Ryan on the Mirage case, right? Last night?"

"Yes," Grissom replied. "I still don't understand what you're asking."

"Well, let's say that a friend of a friend of an acquaintance drew his name for Secret Santa and needs help with what to buy him. You wouldn't have heard what he was interested in, would you? Like a certain movie or band?"

Grissom blinked. In truth, Greg Sanders never had and never would stop surprising him.

Days Left: 12  
Optimist's Guide Tip #2: **Hey, look up! That actually went pretty well! We know you think there's no bright side here, but there's _always_ a silver lining.**

**For instance, you didn't get fired. Who couldn't be happy about that?**

…

Greg was never one to feel particularly smug about anything, but he felt the right he had the right to pat himself on the back. Why? He had finally accomplished the first phase of his mission: he _saw_ Ryan Wolfe.

He actually hadn't meant to. As a matter of fact, he had been walking down the hallway, on the way to do something productive (rare, yes, but not unheard of), when he caught sight of a dark haired, fair skinned man in the trace lab with Warrick and David. He was attractive (not that Greg noticed) and, from far away, seemed to have a nice personality (not that Greg cared). Greg knew the holiday angels were looking over him because really, what else explained this chance run-in? Coincidence? No such thing.

Greg knew that, on a normal week, they would have met far sooner, but the lab was being bogged down with cases and everyone had a certain job they needed to be doing. He should have met Ryan on his first day, but Greg had been on a scene and then pulled a double. Frankly, the only interaction he had been having with a living person lately was Sara.

Greg quickly scampered down the hall when he saw Warrick and Ryan begin to make their way out of the lab. Sure, Greg wanted to see Ryan, but he didn't want to be obvious or anything. Dashing in the opposite direction was the only logical course of action.

Greg rolled his eyes at himself.

Days Left: 11  
Optimist's Guide Tip #3: **Okay, so you looked a bit conspicuous when you scuttled towards the DNA lab. So what? At least you know whom you're buying for; seeing them is one step closer to actually _meeting_ them. We still believe in you.**

**Really. We do.**

…

Greg wasn't a good stalker, that was for sure.

He thought it would be easier than it actually was; of course, he hadn't considered that they worked in a building with glass walls. Ten minutes into his shift reminded him how difficult it was for one to follow another without appearing a bit suspicious to everyone else. Nick and Warrick cast him an odd look as they caught sight of him tiptoeing past the DNA lab, but _they_ weren't on a mission. Nick probably drew someone easy, like Grissom; give the man a dead bug off the sidewalk and he'd be happy for days.

But that wasn't important. Besides, Greg probably couldn't get away with giving Ryan a deceased cockroach.

Greg wasn't sure why, but he felt strangely compelled to know Ryan better. Although this usually involved breakfast or a shared coffee break, Greg didn't want to appear too eager, so he went around following him instead. When Ryan glanced over his shoulder, Greg would quickly stick his nose in a file, pretending to read until Ryan moved on, and then he'd begin his stalking routine once more. Elaborate? Yes. Fruitful? Not so far, but the night was still young.

So no, Greg hadn't even formally introduced himself yet. He needed to get an idea of what kind of guy Ryan was first. Boring? Intelligent? Sarcastic? Mean? Straight?

That last part was terribly disheartening.

Greg shoved the thought out of his head; whether Ryan was into girls or guys was irrelevant. He still needed to buy the man a present either way. Sure, Greg found him incredibly attractive and he felt a bit relieved when Sara and Catherine didn't seem interested in him "that way". Greg had also heard he had a case of OCD; from the crisp appearance of his clothes and the neatness of his case files, Greg would have to agree. That meant, of course, that Ryan would hate Greg's disorderly apartment and less than tidy bathroom, but none of that mattered at the moment. Christmas gift first, hopeful friendship later.

Greg blinked, chastising himself for getting lost in his own internal monologue. Where had Ryan disappeared? On the off chance he had caught Greg staring again, Greg quickly opened up his trusty manila file and immersed himself in it. A moment passed, and then another, before Greg found the courage to peep above the folder in an attempt to spot Ryan once more. Aha! The break room! Talking to… David.

Oh boy. That wasn't destined to go well.

Greg watched, fascinated, as Ryan's smile became more fixed. The blonde could tell David was the one speaking, and by the looks of things, he was using that infamous sarcasm. Ryan looked flustered and replied before turning and leaving the room. Greg let out a sound of frustration; David was turning down lunch with Ryan when Greg would pay money to get five minutes? Why was the man so stubborn?

As though David could hear Greg's silent rant, the technician knocked on the window, stopping Ryan in his tracks. The young CSI turned and David waved him back inside- wait, was David being _nice_? Why wasn't he ever nice to Greg? It was a question for another day as Greg continued to witness the events unfolding a mere three walls away. Ryan was sitting down now, handing David half of a sub sandwich.

Ryan was talking.

To David Hodges.

Some guys got all the luck.

Greg quickly squashed the little bit of jealousy that rose in his chest; it was ridiculous to even _think_ about being envious of David. After all, the technician had eyes for only one man. He wouldn't dream of pursuing something with an almost stranger. Besides, this could be good news. Maybe David could find something about Ryan that could be useful in Greg's endeavor.

Days Left: 10  
Optimist's Guide Tip #4: **See? Now you have a plan! We optimists _love_ plans. Don't screw it up and you'll be fine.**

…

Greg had been so busy trying to strategize a way of talking to David without getting into a snark war that he never considered _David_ would be the one to initiate a serious conversation. This oddity caught Greg by surprise, as did David himself. The technician leaned out of his lab as Greg walked by, grabbed the blonde's arm, and hauled him inside without so much as a hello. Greg wasn't surprised by the lack of greeting, but he _was_ surprised by the words that tumbled out of David's mouth.

"You're Nick's best friend. Is he allergic to anything?"

"Allergic?" Greg echoed, still trying to figure out how he could have been in the hall one second and was in the trace lab the next. It was obviously some time/space phenomenon.

"Food, Sanders. You know, you eat it?"

"You're-you're trying to buy him food?"

"Everyone eats. If you don't eat, you die. It's that simple."

"I know humans have to eat to survive," Greg replied, crossing his arms. "I'm not that stupid."

Greg instantly and inwardly flinched; he _never_ should say things like that. It always gave David some sort of ammunition. However, the technician was too frazzled to use Greg's response to its full potential and retorted with a surprisingly tame, "And I would _never_ think of you as such."

"Why are you asking anyway? Oo, I know," Greg began, answering his own question with a bright smile. "You're finally asking Nick to dinner, right? It's about time you make your move. Go Dave-meister!"

"I can't believe you just called me that," David said, glaring at the blonde from over his microscope. Greg knew such nicknames grated on David's every last nerve; thus, he couldn't resist the temptation to use them. "And for your information, I'm just trying to buy him a present that won't be interpreted as completely thoughtless."

"He might have a hard time believing that."

"That's why I'm asking for your help, moron."

"So you're going with a Harry and David-esqe gift?"

"It's my absolute last resort. I repeat: is he allergic to anything?"

"Sarcasm. He breaks out when he comes in contact with it."

"Go to hell."

"And a Merry Christmas to you as well, Mr. Scrooge!" Greg replied, laughing at David's glare. He had known of David's crush for what felt to be an eternity. He, Jacqui, Bobby, and Archie would sometimes threaten to use their matchmaking powers to their fullest, but they could never be so cruel as to out one of their best friends to a man he felt so strongly for. David hid it well, and if the lab rats weren't so close, they wouldn't notice the furtive glances he'd sometimes send Nick's way, or the way he was always more approachable when Nick was involved. It made Greg unhappy to think that David was unhappy as well, but it's what the technician chose and Greg couldn't make him change his mind.

"Are you going to help me or not? If you aren't, then I'm wasting my time even talking to you."

"Okay, okay," Greg conceded, returning to reality with a startling bout of determination. This was the opportunity he had been hoping for: an exchange of services. "I know we only have nine days and I haven't bought anything either. I'll help you if you help me. Deal?"

"It depends. If it involves your horrid music and ugly shirts, then I'm out."

"Of what, the closet?"

"I'm not having this conversation," David snapped, quickly turning to stalk out of the lab. Greg regretted his choice of words and hastily blockaded the doorway.

"Don't throw a tantrum, Dave. I'm just teasing. Listen, I drew Ryan Wolfe," Greg whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being heard. "And I have no idea what he's into, but I've seen him talking to you. Don't ask me why."

"He's clearly unstable," David deadpanned. "God knows that _regular_ folks won't spare me a moment of their precious time."

"You're a regular comedian, Dave," Greg replied, shaking his head at the man's words. "Anyway, if you stealthily inquire into his likes and interests, I'll get the phone numbers of all five of Nicky's sisters. It's the Secret Santa jackpot."

"Nick's sisters? You're proposing I call a complete stranger and ask if they know what I can buy their brother for our Secret Santa office game?"

Greg paused a moment; David had the innate ability to make every absurd plan Greg concocted even more absurd. He was a levelheaded, logical man who reasoned out each situation. However, desperate times called for desperate measures and after a moment of consideration, Greg nodded.

"That's exactly what I propose. How about it?"

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Of course you can. It's for your Nicky-poo."

"I swear I'm going to-''

"Shush, Dave. God can hear you."

Days left: 9.  
Optimist's Guide Tip #5: **Although we don't promote quasi-blackmail of any kind, we have to admit your plan is brilliant.**

**Wait, have you been reading _The Pessimist's Guide to Christmas_? This is something only _they'd_ think up. You traitor.**

…

On the eve of the eighth day, Greg had managed to distract Nick long enough to momentarily steal his cell phone, scroll through his contacts, and jot down each number that corresponded with one of Nick's sisters. Sure, it was probably illegal in some mundane, irrelevant way, but that was beside the point. The judge would certainly understand the seriousness of Secret Santa and what the game entailed.

He had written down the information on a yellow Post-It and stuck it in a fiber analysis report, slipping it to David in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. He, in turn, received the same file half an hour later. The yellow Post-It was replaced by a blue one with the words _Poppy seed muffins _scrawled on the front. Greg blinked. Was that it? Was that the best David could do? He expected Greg to pick up a pack of muffins from the bakery down the street and stick a bow on it? It had to be _special_, not mass-produced.

As if David had predicted Greg's sentiment, the message continued on the back of the small paper.

_Make_ _some yourself. He'll appreciate the thought. Whether he'll feel the same about your cooking skills remains to be seen._

Greg grinned. Simple and heartfelt.

Perfect.

Days left: 8.  
Optimist's Guide Tip #6: **You have the perfect idea. Congratulations! Now go home and start baking!**

**But on the off chance you want _us_ to try one, then please understand we're doing the… low-carb thing. Yeah, that's it. We'll have to respectfully decline. It's not that we don't believe in your baking, but… no way.**

…

Greg's grandmother used to bake almost every day and to young Greg, that was heaven. Brownies? Cupcakes? Pie? She could make them all, whipping up light and delicious treats that made his mouth water. He and Papa Olaf would often arm wrestle for the last biscuit.

But he wasn't his grandmother. He didn't cook. He didn't bake. And he doubted he inherited the baking gene; he was king of the microwave, emperor of the frozen food aisle, lord of the vending machine… but that was as far as his culinary skills went. In his defense, he never thought he would _need_ them. He practically lived at the lab, and if he wasn't there then he was sleeping at home. Cooking was an unnecessary skill.

But how hard could it be?

That was his state of mind as he located his grandmother's old poppy seed muffin recipe that she had, for reasons unknown to Greg, given him when he moved away. It was his favorite thing she made; maybe she had wanted him to try making them for himself? Maybe it was supposed to remind him of home? Needless to say, he had never used it before, but he was sending his silent thanks right then. Anyone could go online and _print_ out a recipe, but it was a different story if you had your grandmother's original formula.

He glanced at the clock and then the card. Huh. It said he needed to sift things out, separate ingredients, etcetera, but he only had forty-five minutes until shift began. Besides, what did it matter of he sifted this and separated that? It was all going to end up in the same bowl anyway. With this view, he set about hurriedly measuring things, not bothering with the more refined steps on the card.

Five minutes later, he was left staring into a lumpy batter abyss. Were the lumps supposed to be there? He shrugged before messily spooning the batter into the muffin tin. His plan was to let the muffins bake for the next twenty-five minutes and then let them cool while he was at the lab. It was a perfect plan as he set the tin inside the oven and left the kitchen, hoping to find something worthy to wear.

With a small amount of dread, Greg made his way into his bedroom. He took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and peered into his disastrous closet. When was the last time he cleaned? From the dust, he'd wager a few years. An even more important question presented itself: what did he have that he didn't have to iron? A t-shirt was too casual, all his cotton things were wrinkled, and he wouldn't be caught dead in the sweater his mother sent two holidays ago. He loved the woman –he honestly did- but a golf-like sweater wasn't his idea of fashion and he wasn't sure he could pull off the high socks, funny shoes, plaid pants, and weird hat that golf players insisted on wearing. He bit his lip, idly wondering what he thought Ryan would like before swiftly squashing that thought. He wasn't going to change for anyone, not even men whom he found to be definite boyfriend material.

Still, Ryan did seem to have a good, classic taste in clothes. Maybe Greg should take a page from his book after all. Greg stepped into the small space, rummaging through clothes until he found a black and white stripped polo. It wasn't wild, but it wasn't boring, and Greg had a feeling that Ryan would approve. Plus, it didn't need to be ironed.

He pulled the shirt on before finding his favorite pair of dark blue jeans. He miraculously located his pair of black sneakers and then discovered his watch, wallet, and lab ID hiding beneath his couch pillow. Once he spotted his keys on his coffee table, he allowed himself to plop onto his couch. Was he going insane? Some would argue he was already there. He couldn't stop thinking about Ryan; not in a constant, obsessive way, but enough to disrupt his usual conscious flow. Weren't relationships with co-workers doomed to fail? Wasn't Ryan straight? Wasn't Greg a hopeless nutcase? Wasn't this Secret Santa thing just an excuse to give him a present and then strike up a friendship? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. There wasn't any arguing against it.

With a small frown, Greg closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, hoping to catch a few Zs before the oven timer went off and he had to go to work. At least he hadn't been _dreaming_ about Ryan or anything; that would be strange and a little uncomfortable… from Ryan's standpoint, at least. Greg was an equal opportunity dreamer.

What felt like a few milliseconds later, Greg was startled awake by a beeping sound in the kitchen. He jumped up and dashed towards the oven, impatient to see whether any of his grandmother's baking skills had rubbed off. He grabbed the hot mitts before opening the oven door, bracing himself for the wave of heat that was supposed to ghost against his face.

But no such wave came.

As a matter of fact, the muffins hadn't risen at all; hell, they still looked raw. But that wasn't possible, because he'd _never_ be so stupid as to… oh.

He turned on the timer, but not the heat.

Greg groaned.

_Dumb ass_.

Days left: 7.  
Optimist's Guide Tip #7: **That was certainly a bone headed move, but we mean that in the nicest way. Better luck next time, that's our motto!**

…

Tonight, he refused to let baked goods get the better of him. If there was one thing Greg Sanders was, it was determined. He hopped out of the shower (nearly tripping, but saving himself a lot of pain by clutching onto his rubber ducky shower curtain for balance.) and hurriedly dressed (no time to iron!) before flying into the kitchen. He echoed his actions from yesterday, throwing in ingredients until he had a questionable looking batter. It wasn't the batter he was concerned about; it was his oven. He had berated himself the entire night before, wondering _how_ he could have been so stupid as to actually forget to turn on the heat.

With a deep breath, he waited as the timer on his oven dwindled down, the red numbers decreasing as the muffins cooked inside. He had turned the oven on this time, so he wasn't expecting any problems. He impatiently shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nearly lunging for his nearby oven mitts as the timer began its irritating beep.

He quickly shut it off before opening the oven door. Ha! It was hot in there, which meant they had cooked, which meant…

Wait a minute.

They appeared to be baked, but they were so _flat_, resembling thick, miniscule pancakes.

He tilted his head back and groaned again.

_Baking soda_.

He had forgotten the baking soda and they hadn't risen in the least.

Days left: 6.  
Optimist's Guide Tip #8: **Two days in a row. Wow. _How_ do you keep messing this up? Our advice: don't quit your day job.**

**Or night job, as the case may be.**

…

The morning before, Greg had set his alarm an hour earlier, giving himself extra time to calmly bathe and dress before heading towards the kitchen.

It was the night of reckoning.

Did a recipe card and a bunch of baking ingredients honestly think they were going to get the best of him? No way. He hadn't graduated top of his class for nothing; he was a _chemist_, for Lord's sake. His profession consisted of throwing perps in jail and mixing solvents. A solvent was just an ingredient and if he was allowed to play with flammable materials, then he could damn well bake some muffins.

"Okay, Greggo," he muttered, standing in his doorway as through he were Clint Eastwood, ready for his kitchen to make his day. "She tried teaching you this, remember? Of course, you weren't _listening_ at the time-"

Wait. That wasn't very inspiring.

"Anyway, it's time to beat the muffins at their own game. They'll bake. They'll rise. They'll taste so good that Emeril'll offer me a book deal."

Much better. His lips twisted into a grimace of determination. Cake flour? Check. Butter? Check. Sugar, eggs, lemon juice, vanilla, poppy seeds, and _baking soda_? Check.

He placed the card on the fridge under a magnet for easy readability, just like his grandmother did. Maybe he could channel some of her baking abilities… then again, maybe he could ask his neighbor for help. After all, she once had a cake recipe published in _Country Living_ and- no! No, he could do this. He was going to make these for Ryan if it's the last thing he did.

Step one: Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

His eyes flickered towards the oven that taunted him from its place in the corner. Preheat the oven; he could do that, no problem. He stuck his hand out and twisted the dial. Mission accomplished.

Step two: Sift the flour and baking soda together.

Biting his lip, Greg realized he would, in fact, have to _sift_ the flour and baking soda instead of just carelessly measuring them out and throwing them in a bowl. (Lumpy muffins? No thank you.) With a determination that would make his grandmother proud, he squatted and began rummaging through his bottom cabinets. Pots, pans, large bowls, and… porn? He furrowed his eyebrows and grabbed the lone, dirty magazine. How old _was_ this? God, when was the last time he really cooked?

As tempting as it was to flip through the pages, he resisted and tossed it into the trash. If he was ever going to get Ryan's attention, the last thing he wanted was for Ryan to find ancient magazines of naked people in his apartment. Although, in his defense, Greg had no idea how it had gotten into a bottom kitchen cabinet.

Once again, Greg began his search. What were all these old tins doing down here? And a hammer? Hell, had he been trying to _fix_ something? Maybe David had come over once. Lord knows Greg complained about his clogged-every-other-day drain enough. There were some old silver forks and spoons, tarnished to the point of no return. A large bag of inherited cookie cutters, too, not that he ever used them. Some baking racks, a pizza pan, an ancient Christm- ha! _Ha!_

Greg's eyes found the silver, shining beacon of hope and glory, also known as his rarely used sifter. He jumped up, careful not to bang his head, and did a small victory dance on the tile floor.

"Grandma, you'd be proud of me," he announced to his empty apartment. With a self-satisfied smile, he glanced at the recipe again.

Step three: Cream the butter in a large bowl and add sugar little by little until light and fluffy.

Not a problem. He grabbed a large metal bowl and then some butter sticks from the refrigerator. He unwrapped them, tossed them in, and poured in the sugar before taking a spoon and stabbing at the mixture.

Huh.

The butter was unyielding, merely pot-marking on the surface. This… wasn't good. He tilted his head, observing the fiasco in the bowl; well, it was clear he'd need some soft butter. And maybe, just _maybe_ he should try adding the sugar a little at a time as opposed to throwing it all in there at once. It wasn't making for a fluffy base. It was just making a mess.

He threw out his initial attempt before getting some more butter and setting it in the microwave, briefly wondering how long it needed to soften. It couldn't be liquefied and he knew he couldn't turn his back to it or it would end up looking like yellow water. He bit his lip again and set it for twenty seconds, watching the small carousel inside turn. By five seconds, it was still firm. Ten seconds, it was starting to give. Fifteen seconds, it was becoming a bit shiny, but by twenty seconds, it seemed more workable. As the microwave went off, Greg opened the door and hesitantly reached for the sticks, gently pressing into the sides.

Pliable. Nice.

He dumped it into the bowl and then resisted the urge to throw large amounts of sugar inside and mix them up. If he was going to do it, he was going to do it _right, _so he located his electric mixer (sans porn) and added the sugar little by little.

Step three: add eggs one by one.

Why not add them altogether? Was it really going to mess anything up? Greg considered his options and figured he'd rather spare the extra time it would take to add them one by one and then beating as opposed to throwing them all in simultaneously.

Step four: Throw in everything else except the flour and soda.

Huh. Greg glanced at the counter, hesitantly measuring out and adding all but his "dry mixture", beating it until it was an ideal consistency. Thicker than water, thinner than concrete. Ideal.

Step five: Now add everything else.

Greg eagerly did, seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. The batter was lumpless and complete; he had actually followed the directions and it was oddly satisfying.

He spooned the batter into the muffin tin and set it inside the (hot) oven, setting the timer before leaving the kitchen, happily ignoring the half-naked woman smiling up at him from his garbage can.

With a content sigh, he flopped onto his couch and stretched out, waiting only for the oven to annoy him with beeping. He briefly wondered where he last threw his shoes and then figured he'd find them eventually, along with his wallet and keys. He closed his eyes and felt a yawn begin. He shifted, making himself more comfortable, and it seemed like only moments later when a bleeping roused him from his nap. He idly wondered whether Ryan would enjoy carbon muffins, because Greg just didn't feel like getting up.

He doubted he would, through. Even Greg wouldn't eat carbon muffins, and he owned up to eating almost _anything_. He took a deep, slightly nervous breath before rising and walking towards the kitchen; he paused a moment, bracing himself for the worst before grabbing his one pair of oven mitts and opening the over door. Would they be raw? Flat? Did they explode? Did they taste like chewable cement?

Greg paused, gazing inside the hot oven. His eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling.

They were… perfect.

He let out a whoop of triumph, posing with a "rock on" sign although there wasn't anyone to see it, and grabbed a too-hot muffin for himself.

After all, this was a cause for celebration.

Days left: 5.  
Optimist's Guide Tip #9: **See? We knew you could do this. We never lost our faith in you. (Well, maybe once. Remember when you found the porn? That was the low point.) Just don't tell our publishers; we're not supposed to lose our faith in anyone, see? That's why we're optimists.**

**Of course, when the publishers meet _you_, they might understand our viewpoint. After all, there was porn… in your _kitchen._**

…

Four days later.

Greg had insisted –demanded, actually, and then offered to buy with his own money- a real tree for the crime lab's Secret Santa exchange. The only thing worse than a plastic tree, snow from a can, and then spraying the whole thing down with an artificial pine scent was no tree at all. Greg just wasn't going to let that happen. He'd rally in protest, start a riot, or threaten resignation, but he would _not_ participate in a holiday game without a fresh tree, and that was that.

He stood back for a moment, admiring his handy work. It wasn't full size, but it _was_ real and covered with ornaments, tinsel, and lights. He even topped it with a homemade star. It was a glittery, crappy looking monstrosity, but it was homemade and that was just fine with him. He even used the tree skirt his grandmother made in 1968, giving the entire production a homey, merry look if one could ignore that it was sitting in the middle of a crime lab.

A crime lab that was attached to a coroner's office.

A coroner's office that was filled with corpses.

Greg sighed. This place sure sucked the warmth from the holiday season.

His view of the tree was momentarily obstructed; he was about to tell the barricade to move it or lose it, but silenced himself when he saw that it was David who was in his way. The trace technician gazed at Greg's blood, sweat, and tears for only a moment before hurrying away towards his cheer-free lab. Greg snorted, resisting the temptation to catch up with him. After all, David hadn't put his gift with everyone else's and that was against the rules (Plus, it gave Greg the beloved opportunity to torture him just a little bit more. And really, could you wrap your friend's irritation in a bow?)

"He's going to pay for that," came a voice from behind. Greg recognized it instantly and felt his stomach flip-flop before freezing. He took a deep breath and told himself to calm down as he turned to face the speaker. Why in the world was he so nervous? Wait, were his hands sweating? He wiped them on the bottom of his shirt. He hadn't been so edgy since… well, ever.

"You think so?" Greg asked, smiling as Ryan stood next to him, admiring the tree for himself.

"Definitely. He's so private and this Secret Santa thing has been driving him nuts."

"Really?"

"You have no idea. I think he was planning to fake sick and skip the country tonight, but he likes his job."

"And he didn't tell _me _about this escapade?"

_Damn_. When was he going to stop answering with a question? It made him look an idiot!

"Well, I think he wanted it to stay secret. Know what I mean?" Ryan shot Greg a meaningful look. Greg, understanding what Ryan was saying, took a theatric step back.

"Are you trying to imply that I can't keep a secret?" Greg asked, decorating his affronted query with mock outrage.

"And here they say you can't take a hint."

"Who's 'they'? What have you heard?"

"Oh, I've heard things," Ryan teased. Wait, were they flirting? Greg could never figure this stuff out. If they were flirting, then how lucky was _he_? Then again, he could be reading into this all wrong. Was he willing to take that chance? Make a fool out of himself? Embarrass Ryan? Why couldn't there be clear answers for this kind of thing?

"You have a bad taste in music, for one," Ryan began, smiling. "Too many hair products. A horrible choice of wardrobe. Should I continue?"

"No, I think I get the idea," Greg replied, hiding his anxious nerves behind another wide grin that veiled his nausea well. Here went nothing. He could either pine forever or throw out some sort of hint. It had to sound casual, of course, and not too desperate either.

"Well, my old boy… that is, I used to live in San Francisco and you develop a style all your own there. When I used to date- I mean, I still _do_ date, I'm not attached to anyone. I meant I'm not in a relationship right now, but I'm… you know, looking," Greg choked out. Good Lord, could that have been any more awkward? Ryan was looking at him funnily, no doubt wondering why Greg had suddenly tripped over his words. "Looks like they're coming," Greg weakly finished. So much for making a fearless move.

Ryan glanced towards the door; indeed, Sara, Catherine, and the rest of the graveyard shift were beginning to stream inside, some heading straight towards the coffee maker while others hurriedly stuffed their last minute gifts beneath the tree. Everyone made surprisingly jovial conversation while they waited for the remaining employees to stop by; Jim Brass, although not participating, still entered with Grissom while Warrick and Nick came in a few moments later, followed by Judy who was donning a red Santa hat. Greg had to love the woman's enthusiasm.

"Okay everyone, we don't have a lot of time," Grissom announced, quickly gathering everyone's attention. "But we'll give gifts one by one. Who wants to start?"

There was a silence until Warrick, ever cool, lumbered towards the tree, found his wrapped box, and handed it to Judy. She gave a small squeal of delight and a big smile before excitedly removing the paper.

This was the general pattern as Catherine gave her gift to Archie, Archie to Grissom, Grissom to Jacqui, Jacqui to Sara, Sara to Henry, Henry to Super Dave, etcetera. Greg was enjoying himself by just watching, loving that the shift was so tight nit. Plus, he was getting to stand next to Ryan. That was a major plus.

" 'Kay, Greggo. Your turn," Nick stated, nodding towards the tree. Greg suddenly felt a nervous ball form in his stomach, bouncing around and making him sick.

Relax. They're baked goods. What man doesn't like baked goods? It's completely hetero.

With this un-encouraging mantra, Greg walked towards the tree, gently picked up the package, and walked towards Ryan, handing it to the other man with what he hoped was a confident, playful smile.

"Merry Christmas," Greg replied, all but shoving the basket into Ryan's unsuspecting hands. "Hope you like it. I can get you something else if you don't. I mean, it wouldn't be any trou-''

"Greg, I'm sure I'll love it. Are you my Secret Santa or are you just being nice?"

"Can I choose both?"

Ryan laughed and nodded. "Sure, but I thought I saw you giving David something. I just assumed you had drawn his name."

"David? Oh, I get him something every year. Last year, it was a gift card to a kinky store downtown."

Ryan's expression was priceless as a pink tint graced his features. "I'm sure he loved it," the other man replied, almost choking on his words even as his brown eyes sparkled with humor. "Although I can't imagine he actually used it."

"He threw it in his fireplace and took a picture of it burning. After which, he sent said picture to me. It was an elaborate way of showing how much he detested it, so I bought him The Zombie Survival Guide this year. Less lack of clothing."

"That was… probably a good idea," Ryan hesitantly replied before holding up his present. "It smells good."

"They better. I've only been battling them for the past week."

Ryan quirked an eyebrow before carefully peeling off the paper red, shiny paper (when Greg would have just torn it to shreds) and then looked into the basket, clearly surprised. He looked up, met Greg's eyes, and broke into a huge grin.

"Greg, this is great. How did you know I liked these?"

"Oh, I have my sources," Greg replied. "One them happens to be-''

"A snarky lab rat?"

"Possibly, but I can't reveal that information."

"I think I can live with that, but this is really… it's sweet of you, Greg. I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

Greg wanted to say it took him three days and several kitchen excavations to finally complete his gift, but looking at Ryan's pleased expression forbade it. Suddenly, Greg didn't remember the sifter or baking soda or even the lack of oven heat. He did this because he wanted to and, God help him, he'd do it all over again.

"Greg, I didn't know you could bake," Archie noted, sniffing the aroma appreciatively.

"I couldn't when I started," Greg replied, relieved at Ryan's laugh. "But I got the hang of it the third time around."

"I hope you're planning to share those," Jacqui interrupted, staring at the muffins before glancing at Greg and breaking into a wide, knowing smile. Ryan also caught onto this devious grin and exchanged a bewildered look with the blonde. That grin wasn't about the muffins. It was far too conniving for that.

"Jacq, you look like the cat who caught the canary. Care to share?" Greg pointedly asked.

"You're standing under mistletoe," she easily replied, pointing towards the ceiling while Greg and Ryan practically jumped apart as though scalded. Ryan's eyes were wide and a blush stained his cheeks as he opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He glanced down, obviously awkward when it came to anything faintly romantic. Similarly, Greg was feeling the embarrassment himself. He would have gladly stuck to the kissing-under-mistletoe tradition, although he would have preferred if his comrades weren't watching them as though it were a movie instead of reality. He cleared his throat.

"So we are," he replied, keeping his voice light. "Who knew? Anyway, who's next?"

Catherine crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow, a look that often made Greg feel as though he had been spotted with his hand in the cookie jar.

"No offense, Greg," Sara began, grinning in that large, gap-tooth way of hers. "But you've been kind of obvious."

"Obvious?" Greg echoed, too shocked to be offended. After all, he was sure he had been totally inconspicuous.

"Following Ryan around? I mean, you can only read through the same case file so many times before people start noticing."

"It was- it was research."

"On how to stalk?"

"No," Greg groaned, taking a few steps back from a very surprised Ryan. He didn't want to be _right there_ should Ryan try to attack him in utter disgust. Why did he work with CSIs again? Damn their professional observational skills. Why him? _Why? _"So I would know what to buy him for the exchange. I kept trying to find something out until David told me he appreciated decent baking, so I figured I'd make him something to show him-''

"You're interested?" Sara helpfully added. Greg shot her a dirty look.

"_No. _I was going to say that I'm a nice guy trying to include the newbie, but you've shot that plan."

"Oh, honey," Jacqui sighed, shaking her head. "A blind man could see what you were up to, but it's a nice try."

Bobby frowned, able to see how uncomfortable the two men were. And sure, he'd grill Greg later (because the gossip mill just wasn't enough sometimes), but that was _later_ and this was _now_. Some best friend maneuvering was obviously in order.

"Speaking of snarky lab rats, I don't see David here," Bobby mused, hoping his friend's absence would garner more attention than Ryan, Greg, and their precarious stance beneath mistletoe.

"You know what? You're right," Sara declared. "I think he's trying to get out of giving his present."

"He would _never_ do that," Catherine replied, sarcasm evident. Greg was fairly sure David would skip their little gathering in a heartbeat. "We should remind him that today's the exchange."

"I'm sure he knows already," Warrick replied. "He just doesn't want to mingle with the living. Too many happy people and he starts growing fangs and hissing."

"And cowboy over here still hasn't gotten his gift," Catherine noted, nodding towards Nick. "Ten bucks says Hodges is his double S."

Greg watched them troop out and turned back to Ryan, praying he could somehow salvage their friendship. What could he say? Could he laugh it off? Lie somehow? He bit his lip for a moment as his eyes fluttered to meet Ryan's, but before he could say anything, Ryan was gone.

…

It was officially Christmas Eve

It was officially Christmas Eve and Greg was off.

It was Christmas Eve, Greg was off, and he was watching the flames in his oven recede to a mere smoke.

It was Christmas Eve, Greg was off, he was watching the flames in his oven to recede to a mere smoke, and he felt utterly pitiable upon realizing that he had even attempted to cook himself Christmas dinner anyway.

What had he been thinking? He thought he had learned his lesson with the first two disastrous muffin endeavors, but no. He _never_ learned his lesson. He _never_ got the hint, caught the clue. He was pathetic; he knew it, his co-workers knew it, and Ryan knew it. Ryan _especially_ knew it, considering the other man had been avoiding Greg like the plague. If Greg went to get some trace, Ryan would hastily excuse himself from his conversation with David before making tracks out of there. (David kept inquiring into what the deal was, but Greg simply couldn't bring himself to explain.) If Greg went to get coffee, Ryan would gulp the rest of his down without another word and disappear through the door. If they were getting off shift at the same time and happened to meet in the locker rooms, Ryan would manage a weak smile, quickly change his shoes, and blaze a trail to the door.

Greg could say he wasn't bothered by it, but he wasn't a very good liar. In truth, he was crushed. Maybe Ryan was uncomfortable with Greg liking him, but did he have to be so blatant about it? Greg was weighed down with an even worse thought: what if Ryan was uncomfortable with Greg being gay _period?_ Then there would be no hope for a friendship regardless of how much time passed.

Greg sighed as he drug out the blackened turkey and set it on the counter, idly wondering if it was still edible before deciding he wasn't really hungry anyway. How could he be? He lost a good friendship. He doubted he'd be hungry for a long time.

He wandered out of the kitchen and slumped onto his couch, hypnotized by the colorful fish that swam in their tank. He took a glance around; he had decorated, but it seemed dead, as though each ornament was a small, malignant weight, reminding him of what had happened the day of the exchange. He knew Jacqui meant well –she only wanted him to be happy- but it backfired to the point of no return. He was screwed.

And not in the good way.

He laid long ways on the couch, debating whether the effort to find the television remote was worth it. There probably wasn't anything good on; sad repeats or corny Christmas movies. Maybe one of those old stop-motion films was playing. He loved those when he was a kid and it wasn't like he couldn't use some nice memories.

He was halfway finished with lifting up all the couch cushions and pillows in search of the elusive device when the ringing doorbell interrupted him. He glanced towards the front door, preferring not to answer. What if it was Jacqui who had come to apologize? Or one of his lab rat friends coming to cheer him up? He didn't want to be _reminded_ that Ryan couldn't bear to look at him; at the same time, he really didn't want to be alone. Bobby or Jacqui wouldn't be so bad, really. Not if they stayed on safe topics, like anything that wasn't about Ryan.

He jumped up and sprinted towards the door, throwing it open, ready to greet whoever was on the other side.

His initial reaction was to freeze and morph into a human/gold fish hybrid, mouth gaping and eyes wide. However, humans haven't lost their survival instinct yet, so instead of wearing a fish-esque expression, Greg opted for choice #2: living to see tomorrow. The moment he saw Ryan on the other side of the threshold, he unhesitatingly slammed his door shut again, considering whether Ryan would really show up just to slap him around. Ryan wasn't the violent type, was he? No. Of course not. Surely.

"Greg, wait," Ryan called, knocking again. "Please, we have to talk."

What was this, a lure? Kill him by kindness? Lull him into a false sense of security? Well, Greg Sanders was too smart to fall for _that_. He may have a bad taste in music and hair and clothes, but he wasn't stupid.

"No we don't. Go away," he childishly replied. Simple words, yes, but they got the point across.

"Listen, I think we may have had a misunderstanding. Open up and we can-''

"Talk? Not happening, my friend. I know why you're here and I'm sorry if Jacqui or I embarrassed you, but I can't take that back. Can we just pretend it never happened?"

"Greg, I… this isn't what you think. I'm not upset."

"You expect me to _believe _that? I'll have you know this blonde hair comes from a box. I'm a natural brunette. That equals intelligence on my end, so don't-''

"Greg Sanders, I was a cop before I became a CSI. I kicked down doors for a paycheck," came the reply. _Well._ Greg had to give him points for that one. How did he manage to sound so nice while threatening? Greg supposed it was a unique Ryan Wolfe feature.

The young CSI bit his lip. It seemed as though the confrontation was unavoidable. If he could keep his door intact throughout the conflict, he supposed luck was on his side.

_Damn you, Jacqui Franco_.

With a deep breath, Greg grasped the handle and swung the door open again, standing as tall as he could, hoping to portray some sense of dignity or bravery.

"Ryan," he acknowledged.

"Greg," Ryan replied, smiling. Greg's suspicions rose. Ryan wasn't _supposed_ to smile; this was confrontation, remember? There were supposed to be hurt feelings and wounded pride, not brown eyes and smiles. Greg steeled himself. "Can I come in?"

And let him onto home turf? Was the man insane?

"We can't just talk here?"

"Of course we can, but this'll be a lot easier if I wasn't hanging out on the porch."

Damn his logical thinking. It was going to be the end of Greg.

"Okay, sure, but no funny business."

"Funny business?" Ryan echoed, clearly puzzled as he accepted the invitation to step inside.

"Yeah. You know, assault and battery? It's illegal."

"Greg, I don't understand where you got this idea that I'm angry," Ryan responded, exasperated. "I just wanted to talk."

Greg quirked an eyebrow. This guy was a good one.

"About what?"

"About whether what Jacqui said was true."

"Depends. What did she say?"

"Please don't give me the run around."

Greg sighed and motioned for the other man to join him on the couch. This was going to be a doozy.

"Listen, Ryan, I don't want you to be uncomfortable around me, okay? Yes, I like guys, but I'm not going to jump you in the locker rooms. Second of all, Jacqui was right. At first I just wanted to get a feel of who you were so I wouldn't be stuck buying you something hideously inappropriate, but the more I got to know you, the more attracted I was. So yes, she wasn't lying, but I'm telling you to _please_ not be worried about it."

"I'm not worried," Ryan gently replied. "That's the point. I just… wanted to be sure."

"And are you sure now?" Greg asked, giving him a wan smile. Yep. This hurt. A lot.

Ryan grinned and nodded. "Absolutely. I had to be if this was going to work."

"This?" Greg echoed, instantly tensing. What was 'this?' Were a stream of Ryan's friends waiting right outside, ready to pummel Greg at a moment's notice?

"Uh-huh. The first step of my evil plot."

"Huh. Well, if this is your first step, what's your second?"

"Giving you your present. Actually, I have something else in case you don't want this, but I was kind of hoping."

"Really? I can get that," Greg replied, grinning nervously when Ryan produced a small box from his coat pocket. "Gonna tell me what it is?"

"Nope. The surprise is half the fun."

Greg's nervousness slowly began to die away. Ryan hadn't assaulted him yet and his door was still in one piece. Could it get any better?

Greg began to tear away at the paper (never one to be subtle, that's for sure) and then took off the lid, eager brown eyes hypnotized by what he saw inside. He was sure he was frozen, completely immobile from the shock. It was a plant. A certain festive plant that David _hated_ having in his lab and that Jacqui lived to torture him with. It was innocent just lying there, but it could've meant a million things. What was Ryan trying to say?

"It's a sprig of mistletoe," Greg announced, clearly surprised. "I don't… what?"

Ryan grinned, but Greg could see how anxious he truly was. "I figured Jacqui had the right idea but the wrong timing."

"Really?" came the shaky reply, and damn, he was answering with mundane questions again.

"Really," Ryan confirmed, taking the small sprig from Greg's lax hands, reaching so that it was hanging over the young man's head. "But I thought tonight might be a good time."

"Really?"

Ryan nodded, smiled, and then leaned over and kissed him.

For a moment, Greg was stunned into stillness, his eyes wide as his mind attempted to catch up with reality. The concept that Ryan was kissing him –_him_- was difficult to absorb. After all, Greg had been imagining it, considering it, fantasizing about it until he was cross-eyed, and now it was happening. What happened to his fear? His original hesitation? What happened to the Ryan who couldn't be in the same room as Greg for more than two seconds? Even as Greg's hands found the back of Ryan's neck, pulling the brunette closer, it occurred to him that Ryan acted the exact same way Greg had. Greg, who scampered away whenever Ryan turned around. Greg, who asked everyone else what _they_ thought Ryan would like instead of just talking to him. Greg, who couldn't stay in the same room either. It was timidity and apprehension and uncertainty; they were both guilty of it.

That was all gone now.

Their tongues shyly met in the middle, a hesitant exploration. Greg could feel Ryan's trembling hands against his back, the way his arms wrapped around his waist as the kiss deepened. Greg didn't want to breathe or even think, just feel the entire mix of sensations. The way Ryan felt against him, the way he tasted, the way he sounded when they broke apart, panting for breath. They were both breathing hard, still holding onto each other as their eyes met, quietly asking _Is this okay with you?_

"You didn't need the mistletoe," Greg whispered, vision hazy and huffs punctuating his words. "You never needed mistletoe."

Ryan smiled and tossed it onto the coffee table next to them.

"You never needed any mistletoe either," he whispered, leaning in and brushing the sides of Greg's face with the pads of his thumbs.

Their lips met again.

Days Left: 0.  
Optimist's Guide Tip #14: **Ha. We saw that coming from a mile away, you dog you. **

FIN.


End file.
